The Modeliser (37 page)

“Tamara,” he rasped. And suddenly Tamara felt something in
her give, some last barrier that had always remained with every other man.
Vassily was reaching her, connecting with her in a way that no man ever had,
the last thread of control was gone and she came in a blinding, deafening
crescendo. It was an orgasm unlike any she had ever had before.

Even as she was still pulsing around him, Vassily bit down on
her neck as he too was tipped over and he followed her. He collapsed on top of
her, and then almost immediately rolled off, reversing their positions so that
she was sprawled on top of him. His eyes were closed and slowly his breath
returned to normal. Finally his eyes opened and their gazes clashed and what
she saw in his eyes frightened her.

Tamara rolled off him and then she felt it, tears gathering
in the corner of her eyes. She felt fear close in as Vassily rolled onto his
side and propped himself up, watching her. Tamara felt a wave of anger, she
wanted him gone and out of her space. This was why she never allowed her lovers
into her home.

“Don’t do it.” He said softly. Tamara did not open her eyes,
frightened of what he might see in them. “Don’t try to run.”

Tamara was stung into retorting. “I’m not running.” Her eyes
opened and she saw the smile on Vassily’s face.

“Yes you are. You have nothing to fear from me.” Slowly
Tamara opened her eyes and stared at him. Dare she trust him? Dare she break
the habit of a lifetime and trust a man?

“I love you,” the words were a whisper and Tamara was awed
and shocked and scared as she uttered them for the first time in her life and
meant them. Vassily smiled and stroked a hand over her face.

“Of course,” he said, once again all supreme confidence. “You
and me, we’re the same.”

Tamara swung around to face him, uncaring that the sheet had
slipped down. She glared at him.

“You’re supposed to say it back,” she snapped.

“Of course I love you, how could I not,” Vassily admitted
quietly. “But more than that you are under my protection – no one can
ever hurt you again.” And Tamara believed him. He reached out and pulled her
down on top of him and as he wrapped his arms around her, she was filled with a
sense that for the first time in two decades she was not alone.

Sitting
at a shaded table by the pool of the luxurious, West Hollywood hotel that had
been her home for the last two months, Talia was filled with an acute wash of
loneliness, which she quickly banked down, taking a sip of the bright pink
smoothie in front of her. She was living the dream, she reminded herself. She
had everything she wanted. Talia smiled, feeling hollow and watched as
beautiful young starlet strutted to the pool’s edge, in a tiny bikini, basking
in the confident knowledge that every eye by the poolside was on her.

Talia took another sip of the cool drink, it was still only 9
in the morning and already she could feel the building humidity, by midday the
temperature would be scorching. She turned and stared out at the smoggy view of
the Hollywood Hills, trying to focus on the script meeting that lay ahead of
her. Yet another of the almost daily meetings, which seemed designed to tear
her confidence to shreds and pull her script apart under the guise of
development.

It had all happened so quickly. She had been flown Business
class to Los Angeles by the studio. First she had met her agent – a
polished, super confident Harvard Grad who had the look of someone who had just
stepped off a yacht in The Hamptons. There was no denying that Josh Levine was
beautiful to look at in that polished, pristine Hollywood agent way and yet
after seeing Josh in action, Talia had come to the conclusion that he was
hardly man at all and in fact all shark; perfect for an agent. Josh was
enthusiastic, pushy and Talia had found to her surprise that he had a surprisingly
good sense of humour. Though it was her script
Undone
, that had brought her to LA,
Josh had arranged meetings all over town. Talia had met with producers at
Matrix, Revolution, Syndicate… after a while the names all started to merge
into one. She had got to grips with the freeways and driving on the left and
manic LA rush hour and hill parking and had shuttled herself from meeting to
meeting all over town. Ideas that had percolated in her head for years were
suddenly channelled into pitches and outlines and treatments; ideas were being
optioned and she was actually being paid to write. She was living the dream.
Talia laughed hollowly again as a waitress set down her breakfast of wholewheat
toast and an egg white omelette. She’d got what she wanted and yet something,
someone plagued her dreams and was always on her mind. A line from a Rolling
Stone song floated on the edges of her memory, something about the difference
between getting what you wanted and getting what you needed. With a sigh, Talia
turned to her breakfast. On her tray was a folded copy of the Los Angeles
Times. She shook it open, turning to the front page and then she froze. On the
cover was a photograph of Alex. She fought the urge to toss the paper into the
pool and forced herself to read the caption.
Alex Golden arrives at JFK to
begin an already sold out Broadway run of The Debt
.

Talia felt her stomach begin to churn; they were once again
on the same continent. She’d tried to keep him from her thoughts but Alex was
everywhere, rumours swirled around his name and Talia had fought the bitterness
that assailed her when she heard that he and Isabella were back together, that
Isabella was pregnant. She rubbed at her temples, even as she felt a wave of
nausea and then she pulled herself together. The man was a hypocrite of the
worst kind. He’d fucked half the model population of the world; he had no right
to judge her. She folded the paper decisively and took a bite of her toast as a
shadow fell over her. It was Max. Talia forced a smile as he sat down at the
table. As usual Max kept his sunglasses on, though their table was in the
shade.

“Aren’t you meeting the producers today?” He asked even as
the waitress was quickly setting down his usual fruit salad. Max popped a grape
into his mouth as he looked at Talia.

“Yep I’m heading over there later,” Talia tried but failed to
keep the frustration from her voice. Though the studio execs had adored her
script, so much so that they had quickly attached Max to be the lead in the
film, what had followed was an endless series of notes until now Talia could
not really recognise the script she’d written, could hardly tell what was up
and what was down.

“Talia, notes are part of the process. Just remember how
lucky you are?” Talia nodded even as Max’s words grated on her nerves. After he
had been attached to the script they had met up again and picked up where
they’d left off but deep down she knew he simply wasn’t right for her. It
wasn’t his fault that he wasn’t Alex. Max frowned as he watched Talia take
another bite of toast.

“You’re eating carbs?” Talia rolled her eyes, another reason
that she needed to get rid of Max. Since she’d come to LA he’d taken a
disproportionate interest in her diet, her wardrobe, in making sure she
presented the right image. Not that he’d ever let himself be photographed with
her. Talia was always several paces behind or going through another doorway.
“You know what it’s like,” Max had told her with the winning smile, which now
irritated the hell out of her.

 
Talia laid down
the piece of toast and stared at Max. Always jumpy and unpredictable, since
he’d returned from New Zealand with the production of Defender on hiatus, Max
had been snappy and even more critical. Though she’d tried to turn a blind eye,
Talia was sure that Max’s drug use was far more prolific than she’d realised.
All in all, she’d had quite enough of releasing her inner bad girl. Tonight,
she thought, tonight she would end it. She’d be losing her only friend in LA
but she was tired of pretending, of hanging off Max’s arm like a mindless
idiot. She was ready to be herself again.

Across
the country, in a quiet out of the way table at Mr Chows in the Meatpacking
District, Alex was being sweet-talked. Folded into a chair that was only just
about adequate for his tall frame, he watched with detached amusement as Cole
Sidney flanked by Avital made his big pitch.

“Alex, I’m just going to say it. I fucked up,” Cole admitted.
“You were always perfect for the role but I was seduced by Max and then cameras
rolled and basically, he’s not the real deal. His range is limited, he’s
arrogant and way too much of a jerk to learn.” Alex leaned further back in his
seat. He felt no satisfaction just mild amusement at the irony of it all. The
Debt had been a sell out hit in London and tickets for the Broadway run were
already changing hands for vast sums. A film adaptation was in the works with
names like Howard, Stone and Bigelow vying to direct it. Alex had earned an
Olivier nomination for Best Actor and already Tony buzz surrounded the play. He
was back. So why then did he feel this detachment as though one way or the
other, it didn’t really matter? He watched the anxious glances that passed
between Cole and Avital; they were waiting for his answer.

“So all the talk about the technology and the CGI not being
ready?” Alex asked.

“Bullshit,” Cole said. “Face-saving for Max, wait for the
heat to die down and then re-cast.”

Alex
leaned back in his chair idly looking around the restaurant, acknowledging but
not encouraging the smile a tall beautiful girl was throwing his way. He was
back in New York City; ground zero for The Modeliser, where every other girl
was signed with some agency, where they all seemed to be carrying their
portfolios and yet, since arriving back, Alex had found no woman who could stir
his interest. Nightly, he threw himself into his performance and every night he
went to bed alone. Page 8 had taken to concocting stories, faking quotes and
peddling library photos – it was inconceivable that The Modeliser had
changed his ways.

“How do I know I’m not just getting this because Max is tied
up elsewhere?” Alex asked and Avital butted in.

“He was doing that project that your reader girl scripted,”
Avital waved a dismissive hand and carried on. “But apparently studio is
pulling the plug on it. Max asked for all these re-writes and now the script
isn’t working.”

Alex froze as he tried not to betray any emotion. Talia
wasn’t his problem, it wasn’t his responsibility to save her project and yet he
felt a wave of protectiveness rise up in him. He ran his hand through his hair
and sighed, even as Avital and Cole were watching him expectantly, demanding an
answer. Everybody wanted something.

“I don’t know that I want to spend half the year in New
Zealand,” he finally said.

“Alex, just think about it. I’ll work around your schedule.
Defender is your film,” Cole said. Alex nodded already rising from the table.

“I’ll get back to you,” he said. He strode across the dining
room and moments later, he heard the click of heels behind him. He turned to
see that Avital had followed him out.

“Alex darling…” But he raised his hand to cut her off.

“Avi, while I was in London, I heard rumours that you were
trying to sign Max.” Alex saw the look in Avital’s eyes as she weighed up
whether to bluff her way out of trouble.

“Alex darling, I was a fool.” Alex snorted at Avital’s
approximation of humility.

“Good, because I’ve had offers and I wouldn’t want to have to
leave you.” Avital nodded and Alex knew that his warning had been received loud
and clear, he was taking the power back. He began to walk away and then he
turned back to face his agent.

“Margot has found me a great play for next autumn.” He
watched the dismay on Avital’s face. “You guys will work together to sort out
my availability.” Again Avital nodded, Alex’s currency was, one again, through
the roof; she would not risk losing him.

All
the way back to his West 4
^th
street apartment Alex thought about
Talia’s script, now dead in the water with the studio. No doubt some junior exec
would be dispatched to break the news to her. He slammed into the $7 million
duplex that had been leased for his entire Broadway run. The duplex was the
kind of property that was designed to impress – hand-trowelled Venetian
plastered walls, Brazilian walnut wood floors and vaulted ceilings and exposed
beams and yet he had barely noticed any of it, had not even brought anyone back
here. As he jogged up the floating chrome staircase his mind was drawn back to
that opening night in London. “
You were magnificent
.” Even now months later,
Talia’s words chased about his mind, stopped him from sleeping and fired him up
when stepped onto the stage each night. He had overreacted; he admitted that
now. But something about the thought of Talia with Max, with anyone that wasn’t
him filled him with rage. He, who had spent the last decade on a fucking spree,
now suddenly acquiring a moral centre. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

Even after a shower, he could not clear her from his mind and
a plan was forming. Finally he gave up and made the call uncaring that it would
be the middle of night in London. When the call was finally picked up, he
spoke.

“Vassily Romanov?” Alex asked and then he began to set out
his plan.